Sister Dora
by heisey
Summary: A man, adopted as an infant, comes to see Sister Maggie, claiming to be the son of Sister Dora, young Matt's math and catechism teacher. He is seeking information about her and his biological father. Maggie asks Matt, Karen, and Foggy to investigate. As the investigation unfolds, they find themselves on the trail of a twisted predator.
1. Chapter 1 - The Diary

_Chapter 1 – The Diary_

_Matt_

"Do you remember Sister Dora?" Maggie asked.

Matt took a sip of his morning coffee, wondering why Maggie was calling him to ask that question. "My catechism and math teacher?"

"Yes," Maggie confirmed.

"What about her?"

"There is a man in my office who says he is her son – " Maggie only got that far before Matt interrupted her.

"I thought you were the only one," he quipped.

"Well, I'm not," Maggie said tartly. Then she continued, "He's looking for more information about his background, especially his father. He could use some legal and investigative help."

"OK. But can't he just ask her?"

"Sister Dora died three years ago. Breast cancer."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"It's all right. There's no way you could have known," Maggie said matter-of-factly. "Can you meet with him at my office this morning – you and Karen both?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," Matt replied. "Give us an hour?"

Maggie chuckled. "Late night?"

"You could say that," Matt replied dryly. It was true he didn't get much sleep the night before, but the reason probably was not the one Maggie had in mind. "See you in an hour," he said, smiling, as he ended the call.

He took a sip of coffee, then raised his head when he heard Karen coming out of the bathroom, preceded by the scent of lavender. He'd read that lavender was supposed to be soothing and calming, but these days, it had the opposite effect on him. She gave him a peck on the cheek, then walked around the table to sit across from him. He poured her a cup of coffee (made by him) and pushed it across the table to her. He leaned back in his chair, not quite believing that she was there, with him. He was still surprised that she had given him a second chance. After the way he'd treated her and Foggy, Matt was grateful simply to be a part of their lives again. He didn't dare to hope for more. He didn't deserve it. Then came the afternoon, almost three months ago, when he and Karen were alone in the office. She sensed he was keeping something from her, and she pushed and prodded him until he told her about the young girl Daredevil failed to save, the night before, from a gang of human traffickers. Her body was found in the morning, near the docks. He broke down when he told her, and she comforted him. They'd been together ever since.

Karen sipped her coffee, then asked, "Who were you talking to just now?"

"Maggie called."

"She called?"

"Yeah." Matt heard the surprise in Karen's voice. He had made his peace with the mother who had abandoned him as an infant, but there was still a certain distance between them, by unspoken agreement. They both needed time and space, to figure out what kind of relationship, if any, they wanted to have with each other. Maggie didn't often call him, and when she did, it was always for a reason.

"What did she want?" Karen asked.

"Investigative and legal help," Matt replied, before recounting his conversation with Maggie.

When he finished, Karen nodded. "OK," she said. "Let's get ready to go."

_Karen_

When they walked into Sister Maggie's office forty-five minutes later, a man of about forty was sitting across the desk from her. He stood up, held out his hand, and started to speak. Then he saw Matt and did a double-take. Karen smiled to herself. Apparently Maggie had "forgotten" to tell her visitor about Matt's blindness. Matt pretended not to notice and held out his hand. "Matt Murdock."

The visitor quickly regrouped and shook Matt's hand. "Scott Parrish," he replied. Karen took a moment to study him. He was about her height, dressed in a navy blue sport coat, a white button-down shirt, and neatly pressed khakis. His short auburn hair curled at the ends and was beginning to show a few flecks of gray. His eyes, which were an unusual shade of green, were easily his most memorable feature.

Maggie introduced Karen, who guided Matt to a chair and sat next to him. "So, Scott," Maggie began, "why don't you tell Karen and Matt what you told me?"

"OK." Scott took a deep breath and started speaking. "I was born and raised upstate, in Troy, near Albany. I was adopted when I was only a few weeks old. My parents told me when I was eight, as soon as they thought I was old enough to understand. I was never especially interested in finding my biological parents. Rosemary and Joe Parrish were my real parents, the only parents I ever wanted. But a couple of years ago – " His voice broke.

Maggie reached out and squeezed Scott's hand gently. "It's OK. Take your time."

Scott took a minute to recover his composure and sniffed before he continued. "They both died, within a few months of each other. Mom had Alzheimer's, and Dad had a heart attack. My aunts and uncles said Alzheimer's and heart disease ran in their families. That got me thinking, you know, that maybe I should try to trace my biological family. Not because I wanted to have a relationship with them, but because I needed to know their medical history – and not just for me, but for my kids, too. I had to hire a lawyer, and it took more than a year, but I finally got my adoption records unsealed. There wasn't much, but what I found brought me here." He picked up several pieces of paper and handed them to Karen.

She glanced at them, then asked, "May I?" Scott nodded. She read the first page quickly, then said, "It's a birth certificate." She looked at Scott. "Yours?"

He nodded. "Yes, it's my original birth certificate, from before the adoption."

Karen continued reading. "It lists his mother as 'Doreen Sullivan,' age 16, 'no fixed address.' The father is listed as 'Jacob.' Nothing else about him." She put the paper down and looked at the next page. "It's a handwritten note." She read, "'My son should be raised in the Catholic faith. Please tell him his mother is a proud Irish daughter of Hell's Kitchen and loves him very much.' Then it's signed, 'Doreen Sullivan'." She lifted her head and turned to Scott. "That's why you came here?"

"Yes." He smiled wryly. "But I never knew there could be so many Catholic churches in one neighborhood. This is the fifth one I've been to."

Maggie picked up the story. "'Doreen Sullivan' was the name Sister Dora gave when she came to us in the summer of 1980."

"The name she gave you?" Matt asked. "You think it wasn't her real name?"

Maggie pressed her lips together and shook her head. "I don't know. It's not like we did background checks in those days. According to what the older sisters have told me, if a woman was sincere in her vocation and successfully completed the novitiate, she could take her vows and join the order."

"It's possible it isn't her real name," Scott said. "After we got my adoption records unsealed, my lawyer searched for any record of a 'Doreen Sullivan' in Troy and the surrounding area, but he didn't find anyone by that name who was the right age to be my mother."

"If she really was from Hell's Kitchen, we'll find her," Karen assured him.

"There's something else," Maggie said, gesturing toward a shoebox that sat on the desk in front of her. "While we were waiting for you," she said pointedly, "I sent one of the novices to the attic to see if any of Sister Dora's personal effects were there. We don't have personal possessions, _per se_, but our order doesn't require us to cut our ties to our families or the outside world. I thought she might have kept some letters or photos that would help you trace her. She didn't have any family, that we knew of, so when she died, anything in her room that couldn't be used was boxed up and taken to the attic. This is what we found." She lifted the lid on the box. "We haven't gone through everything, but we did find this." She took something out of the box and handed it to Karen.

Karen examined it. "It's a photograph," she told Matt. "Two men, a woman, and a girl, about 12, maybe 13 years old." She turned it over. "There's something written on the back. It says 'Heavenly Home, 1975'." She handed the photo to Scott. "Does that mean anything to you?"

He shook his head. "No."

"What about the people in the photo?" Matt asked. "Do you recognize any of them?"

Scott shook his head again. "No," he replied, "but the girl and one of the men have red hair, like me." He handed the photo to Maggie, who put it back in the box.

Maggie pushed the box across the desk to Karen. "You can take it with you, as long as you return it when you're finished with it."

"OK," Karen replied.

Matt turned toward Scott. "How long will you be in the city?"

"Only until tomorrow. I have a family and a job in Troy to get back to." He pulled out his wallet and handed a business card to Karen. "You can reach me at either of these numbers." He picked up a few pieces of paper, clipped together, from the desk in front of him, and handed them to Karen, too. "These are copies of the rest of the adoption file. I don't know if any of it will help, but . . . ."

Karen took the papers and tucked them in the shoebox. "We'll be in touch," she assured Scott, "as soon as we know anything." She handed him two business cards, hers and Matt's, saying, "And if you think of anything else we should know, please be sure to call."

Matt stood up, then picked up the shoebox and tucked it under his left arm. He took hold of Karen's arm with his right hand and followed her out of Maggie's office.

It didn't take them long to cover the six blocks from the St. Agnes orphanage to the partially renovated brownstone that now housed the offices of Nelson & Murdock, Attorneys at Law. Next to the sign with the firm's name was a second sign, for "Page Investigations." Once there, Karen went straight to her office. Matt followed her. He set the shoebox down on her desk and took a seat in one of the client chairs. Karen sat down and started going though the contents of the box, setting aside anything that might be helpful. There wasn't much. Then she reached the bottom of the box and gasped.

"What is it?" Matt asked.

She held up an oblong object, about the size of a paperback book, bound in fake leather, with a strap that attached to a small lock. There was no key, but Karen easily opened the flimsy lock. "It's a diary," she said, and began to read it out loud.

_Katie, 1974_

_Dear Diary, This is the worst day of my life ._ . .

Mary Jo McBride pushed open the car door and climbed out. She took a deep breath, flung her arms wide, and exclaimed, "We're here! We're home!" Her husband Patrick got out of the car and joined her, smiling.

In the car's back seat, their twelve-year-old daughter Kathleen sat with her arms folded, making no move to get out of the vehicle. Patrick walked over to the car and leaned in the open window. "C'mon, Katie," he pleaded, "come on out. We're home, now." Katie relented and opened the door. The scene that greeted her was definitely not what she would call "home." Directly in front of her was a row of summer cabins that looked deserted and way too "rustic" to her city girl's eyes. To the left was a larger, two-story building. Their car stood at the end of a dirt track, which had seemed to go on forever from the main road. To her right, her eye caught a glint of sunlight reflecting from something – water, she guessed, maybe a river or a lake. Aside from that, there was nothing but trees all around them. It was creepy, scary. She knew about woods like these, from the horror flicks her mom wouldn't let her see but she sometimes snuck into. Nothing good happened in the woods. Even the air was wrong. It smelled like the cleaning solution they used in the girls' bathrooms at her school.

Katie took another look around and burst into tears. This wasn't home. It couldn't be. Home was Hell's Kitchen, in the heart of New York City. She'd spent her whole life there, except for day trips to Jones Beach on hot summer Sundays. Home was their four-room, third floor walk-up apartment, not some cabin in the middle of nowhere. What were her parents thinking?

Her father knelt in front of her and took her hand. "It's gonna be OK, punkin. You're gonna love it here. I promise."

"Promise?"

"Promise," Patrick repeated, solemnly crossing his heart.

"OK." Katie sniffed and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

When she looked up, a man was walking toward them from the large building. It was Jacob. She looked at him with distaste. He was old, maybe not as old as her parents, but old. He was tall, taller than her dad, and thin. His light-brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail that went halfway down his back. He wore a gray sweatshirt and blue jeans with battered sneakers. He was the reason they had come to this horrible place. The so-called "preacher" who showed up in Hell's Kitchen one day and turned their lives upside down. She hated him. But her parents didn't. They loved him and hung onto his every word.

What had happened to her parents? She loved her mom and dad, but they were like strangers now. It all began when Jacob showed up in Hell's Kitchen. Jacob, with his strange eyes and the rapid-fire intensity of his voice. Somehow, his words burrowed their way into her brain and stayed there in spite of her best efforts to erase them. Her parents didn't even try. They fell for it, all of his talk about a "heavenly home" on earth and a better way of life for the "Children of Heaven," a prelude to the eternal life. If Jacob said it, it was true. They acted like he was the Messiah or something. Katie was pretty sure there was only one. And there was something else. She didn't like the way Jacob looked at her, especially when her parents weren't looking. But when she told her mom, she brushed it off. "Jacob loves you, sweetheart," she said, "just like he loves all the Children of Heaven."

Jacob walked toward them, across the packed dirt where only a few weeds grew. He stopped a few feet away. "You're here!" he exclaimed with a smile. "Welcome to Heavenly Home." Katie frowned and stepped back, trying to hide behind her mother. Jacob was having none of it. "C'mon out, little missy," he coaxed. "Let's see you." Mary Jo pushed her daughter forward. Jacob took a step back and looked her up and down. Katie fidgeted under his scrutiny. His eyes were a weird color: a yellow-green she'd only ever seen in cats' eyes. She tried to look away but couldn't. Finally, Jacob turned his attention to Patrick. Katie let out her breath. She hadn't even known she was holding it.

"Let's get you settled," Jacob was saying to Patrick. Her mood growing darker by the moment, Katie followed Jacob and her parents to one of the cabins.

_Karen_

Karen paused at the end of the diary entry she was reading and looked up at Matt. He seemed lost in thought, resting his chin on his interlaced hands. Then he raised his head and said, "That name – 'Heavenly Home' – could that be the name of a commune? I mean, people were doing that kind of thing in the '70s, right?"

"I guess," Karen replied. "But 'Heavenly,' I don't know, it sounds more like the name of a cult to me."

Matt nodded. "Yeah. Could be." He frowned. "So what do we know, so far?" He held up a finger as he ticked off each fact. "There was a commune, or a cult, or both, called 'Heavenly Home,' probably somewhere around Troy in the '70s. The leader was someone named Jacob."

"His real name, you think?" Karen asked.

Matt shook his head. "No way to know. We also know there was a group of cabins in the woods, maybe near a river or lake."

"That doesn't exactly narrow it down," Karen pointed out. "That part of the state has hundreds of lakes, all with summer cabins around them."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't know about that," Matt said. "It's not like people from Hell's Kitchen have summer cabins."

"Me neither," Karen agreed. "But there were summer people in Vermont, too, when I was growing up. They used to have breakfast at our diner."

"So what else do we know?" Matt thought out loud. "We know Sister Dora grew up in Hell's Kitchen. Then her parents got mixed up with this Jacob, and they left to join his commune or cult or whatever it was."

"And we know she was raised Catholic, at least until her parents met Jacob," Karen added.

"But was 'Doreen Sullivan' even her real name?"

"No idea," Karen replied. Then something occurred to her. She picked up the diary and flipped through its pages.

"What're you doing?" Matt asked.

"In girls' diaries like this, there's usually a page where the owner writes in her name," Karen explained.

"You kept a diary?"

"No, not me. But my mom had one when she was a girl. After she died, I found it and read it. Trying to keep that connection, you know." Tears came to her eyes.

Matt noticed – of course he did – and he was out of his chair and around the desk in an instant. He held her and stroked her hair, murmuring, "It's OK, it's OK." She rested her head on his shoulder and let her grief flow through her. Finally, she raised her head and took a gulping breath of air.

"I'm OK," she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

"You sure about that?"

"I'm sure."

Matt let go and sat on the edge of the desk next to Karen. She picked up the diary again and opened it. After examining it, she said, "There was a page, here, in the front, that's been torn out. I bet that's where she wrote her name."

She put the diary in Matt's hand and guided his other hand to the torn edge. He nodded. "I'm thinking that means 'Doreen Sullivan' wasn't her real name. If it was, why tear out the page with her name?"

"Exactly," Karen agreed. "But we still don't have much to go on. Let's keep reading."

_Katie, 1975_

_Dear Diary, I can't stand it anymore. I want to go home . . . _

"Say 'cheese'," their next-door neighbor Jerry ordered from behind the camera. Katie set her mouth in a sullen frown. Jerry either didn't notice or decided to take the photo anyway. "All done," he said, handing the camera back to Jacob. Jerry had to take the photo because Jacob wanted to be in it. But he didn't belong there. It should have been her mom and dad and her. Jacob wasn't a part of their family. And why did she have to wear such a lame dress, a hand-me-down from one of the older girls? Katie sighed and trudged back inside the cabin where she and her parents had lived for the past year. It wasn't home. It would never be.

With every passing day, it seemed, she missed her former life in Hell's Kitchen more and more. She missed her best friend, Shannon Doyle, and passing notes in class and sharing their secrets over lunch. Did Shannon ever wonder what had happened to her? Or even remember her? There were no girls her age here. The younger girls were too bratty, and the older ones weren't interested in being friends with a 13-year-old. They had other things on their minds. She'd heard a rumor that the oldest girl, Lynnette, was to be married to Jacob. Ugh.

Katie even missed going to school at the parish school. She liked learning new things, especially math and science. The other subjects, not so much. Catechism class was the worst. She could barely stay awake while the teacher droned on and on. And she missed the cutest boy in her class, Jackie Murdock, with his beautiful blue eyes – even if she was too shy to talk to him. Not that he would give her a second look, with her curly red hair, green eyes, and too many freckles. Her mom had told her he was off limits, anyway, because he was a cousin of some kind. Plus, she'd heard her grandmother say the Murdock boys were bad news, because they had the devil in 'em. She didn't care. She pined for Jackie more than ever now, because there were no boys, cute or otherwise, at "Heavenly Home." There were only daughters, no sons, among the six families who made up what Jacob called the "Children of God."

As the months passed, Katie realized she also missed going to church. Real church, that is. Jacob conducted what he called "services," but they weren't church, not really. Church was priests in vestments and hymns and candles and stained glass windows and Communion and even incense sometimes. Jacob's "services," held in the communal dining hall he insisted on calling "Fellowship Hall," were nothing like church. It was just Jacob, rambling on about loving and obeying God and Jesus and Jacob. Mostly Jacob. It was all about Jacob. While she fidgeted, counting the minutes until the "service" was over, her parents sat there, gazing adoringly at Jacob. What was wrong with them? Were they turning into zombies or something?

Life at "Heavenly Home" wasn't exactly "heavenly." Far from it. It was _hard._ It wasn't only the absence of movies and television and everything else that came with living in the big city. Maybe she would have gotten used to that, eventually. Maybe. But that wasn't the worst of it. The grown-ups were trying to be "self-sufficient." That meant trying to grow all of their own food. It also meant she and the other girls had to pitch in and work. A lot of the time, they had to work when they were supposed to be in school. They didn't go to a real school, just classes taught by one of the moms who had been a teacher, before. Everyone, grown-ups and kids alike, worked hard. But they were all city people who didn't have a clue about farming. And sometimes there was barely enough food to go around. At first, when that happened, Jacob would send someone into town to buy food. But she'd heard one of the men saying, only last night, that they were almost out of money.

Katie knew where the money came from. Before they came here, she'd overheard her parents talking about it. "He says we have to sell everything and close out our bank accounts," her dad had said. "It all goes into a common account."

"But what if it doesn't work out?" her mom asked. "We'll have nothing. And it's not like we have much, to begin with." Katie knew that was true. The family was barely getting by on her mom's wages as an aide in a nursing home and her father's earnings as a truck driver. They couldn't really afford her school fees, but her mom was determined to keep her in Catholic school, and so far, they'd always managed to scrape together the money.

"It's gonna work out," her dad answered in the soothing tone of voice he used on Katie when she was upset. "We'll take care of each other there. That's what it's all about."

"I guess," her mom replied doubtfully.

When the day of their departure arrived, they left behind an empty apartment, having sold most of their belongings. Katie slept on the floor for the last two nights, after her bed was sold to the downstairs neighbors. As they left, that last morning, she saw her dad stuff what looked like a wad of cash into the pocket of his jeans. Later that day, at "Heavenly Home," he handed it over to Jacob. Now, it seemed, that money was gone.

Jacob disappeared the morning after Katie heard one of the men say they were almost out of money. He was gone for two weeks. When he returned, a new family came with him, bringing two daughters and, according to Katie's relieved parents, enough money to get them through the winter.

_Karen_

Karen closed the diary and put it down on her desk. "Damn," she said, "this is bad. All girls, and Jacob 'marrying' one of them."

Matt nodded grimly. "You got that right."

"I swear, if we ever find this Jacob creep, we won't need Daredevil to beat the shit out of him. I'll do it myself."

"I'll be right there with you," Matt assured her.

"But first we have to find him. We _have _to. But how?"

Matt thought for a minute. "The photograph. The one she talked about in the diary. What if it's the photo in the shoebox?"

"Of course." Karen smacked herself on the forehead. She lifted the lid on the box and rummaged through it. She found the photograph and studied it for a minute. "But how is this going to help us find Jacob?" she asked.

"It may not, not directly, anyway," Matt replied. Then he explained, "First, we find out who 'Doreen' really was. She said in the diary she went to Catholic school somewhere in Hell's Kitchen, right? Some of the nuns who were teachers back then must still be around. We just have to find them and show them the photo. Maybe someone will recognize her or her parents. And maybe that will help lead us to Jacob."

"OK, I'll take it back to Maggie and ask her to show it around, as soon as we're done here." Karen picked up the diary again.

_Katie, 1977_

_Dear Diary, I take back what I said before. Yesterday was the worst day of my life . . ._

"Rise and shine, punkin!" her mom exclaimed. "Happy birthday! This is going to be your best birthday ever." Katie rubbed the sleep from her eyes and gave her mom a questioning look. "You're fifteen today. That means you're old enough to get married. To Jacob."

Katie stared at her in horror. Then it sunk in. "Noooo!" she wailed. "I can't! I won't!"

"You will," her mother said firmly. "This is an honor. Not every girl can be chosen. Jacob has chosen _you_."

"But, but," Katie stammered, "he's already married, to Lynnette."

Her mother waved a hand. "That doesn't matter. Now, get washed and dressed. You need to look your best today."

Gritting her teeth, Katie got out of bed and went over to the basin to wash her face. She dressed slowly, hoping to delay whatever was going to happen. She needed time, time to figure out how to keep it from happening. The only idea she could come up with was to run away. But how? She would just have to bide her time and wait for a chance to escape.

It never came. She was never left alone that day, right up until the time they took her to the "Fellowship Hall" to stand next to Jacob. He conducted the "wedding service" himself. There was no priest. That gave her some comfort. At least she wasn't really married. She mumbled the vows they made her say and crossed her fingers as she did so. She hoped God would know she didn't mean them.

After the "wedding feast," a lavish meal by "Heavenly Home" standards, she was left alone with Jacob. He took her hand and led her to a room in his quarters, above the "Fellowship Hall." It was a bedroom, furnished with a double bed, a night stand, a dresser, and a wardrobe. "This is your room," he told her. He left her there, closing and locking the door behind him. Katie heard the click of the lock, but ran to the door anyway, trying frantically to open it. No chance.

Jacob returned a few minutes later, now dressed in a loose shirt and drawstring pants. "Lie down," he ordered her. She did as she was told. He undressed her, then himself. When he leaned over the bed, she screamed. He put a hand over her mouth and lowered himself on top of her.

After it was over, he left her alone, locked in her room. She lay on the bed, shocked and aching. Then she felt something warm and sticky between her legs. Oh, God, she was bleeding. It wasn't her time of the month, was it? No. It was Jacob. He made her bleed. Oh, God, please make it stop. She went over to the dresser and found a nightgown in the top drawer, along with a supply of sanitary napkins. She put on the nightgown and her underwear, with a sanitary napkin, then went to lie down again. It was only then that she noticed the sheet was bloody. She tore it off the bed and lay down on the bare mattress. In spite of her best efforts to stay awake, exhaustion soon overcame her, and she fell asleep. Her bleeding had stopped by the time she woke up the next morning.

Over the next couple of months, Katie endured Jacob's frequent nighttime visits, sometimes more than once a night. Thank God, it wasn't as painful as the first time, but there was no pleasure, either. Her hatred for Jacob only grew. She soon learned that the best way to get through the encounters was to focus her mind on something else, anything other than what was actually happening at that moment. She called it "going away." And she was beginning to see a pattern in Jacob's visits. She now realized she was fortunate that Jacob was also "married" to Lynnette. He usually left her alone on the nights he went to Lynnette's room. An escape plan began to form in her mind. She would pick a time when Jacob was with Lynnette. But first she had to prepare.

In the beginning, Jacob's disciples watched her closely; she was never alone except when she was locked in her room at night. But after a month or so, the watchers grew less vigilant. She was able to slip away from them several times a day. At those times, she made her preparations. First, she needed money. She knew where Jacob kept the petty cash box, which was often unattended. At every opportunity, she took a few small bills, hoping the amount was too small to be noticed. She hid them under her mattress, where she kept her diary. She thought she might need a weapon to make her escape. One day, one of the men left the tool shed unlocked. She sneaked in and found a large pipe wrench. Perfect. That went under the mattress, too.

The final problem was how to get out of her room when the time came. She didn't want to go out the window; the drop to the ground from the second floor looked too far. She couldn't risk getting hurt in the fall. And the window was painted shut anyway. The answer came to her when she spotted a paper clip on Jacob's desk one day. That night, she unfolded it and stuck it in the keyhole of the old-fashioned lock, pushing the key out of the lock on the outside of the door. It fell onto a piece of cardboard she slipped under the door. When she pulled the cardboard back inside, the key came with it. There was just enough space for the key to slide under the door. She'd only read about this in one of her books, but it worked. She slid the key back under the door, so it would look like it had fallen accidentally. Now all she had to do was decide when to go, and hope Jacob or the watchers left the key in the lock when it was time.

Her escape couldn't come too soon. She was pregnant, as she discovered when she missed one period, then a second. If she had a baby in this place, she'd be stuck here. She had to get out before she started showing. She decided to make her attempt the next time Jacob was with Lynnette. While he was occupied with her, she should have enough time to get out of the building and into the woods. If she could stay hidden in the woods and walk parallel to the dirt road, maybe she could make it to the main road. There she could hitch a ride and get away for good. When the night came, everything was going according to her plan until she stuck her head out of her room, holding the pipe wrench behind her back, to make sure the hallway was clear. Jacob was leaving Lynnette's room at the same time.

"What d'you think you're doing, you little bitch?" he yelled as he charged toward her. She raised the pipe wrench and swung it as soon as he was close enough. Luck was with her. The wrench struck him on the forehead, opening a gash that immediately started to bleed. He staggered but didn't fall. Half-blinded by the blood flowing from his forehead, he lunged at her and missed. She swung the pipe wrench again and hit him, this time on the side of his head. He fell to the floor and stayed there, unmoving. Katie stared at him, one hand over her mouth, the other hand still holding the wrench.

Lynnette rushed out of her room. "Oh, my God!" she exclaimed. "What happened? Is he dead?"

"I don't know, and I don't care," Katie told her. "I'm outta here. Want to come with me?"

Lynnette shook her head. "It's impossible. You'll never get away."

"I'm going," Katie insisted. "You gonna stop me?"

"No." Lynnette thought for a moment, then turned and hurried away. "I'll be right back," she said over her shoulder.

Katie went back into her room and grabbed the backpack she'd stolen from one of the younger girls. It was stuffed full with her few clothes, her diary, and the money from the petty cash box. She shoved the pipe wrench in and shrugged into the backpack. She was heading for the door when she noticed the photograph of herself with her parents and Jacob that had been taken two years before. She took off the backpack and slid the photograph into an outer pocket.

Lynnette appeared at the end of the hall, holding something in her hand. "Here," she said, "take this." She held out a stack of bills. Katie met her halfway. She took the money and put it in the pocket with the photo, then shrugged into the backpack again.

"Go, go," Lynnette said, "and godspeed. I'll try to keep them from finding out you're gone, for as long as I can."

Katie gave her a brief hug, then turned and ran out of the building.

_Karen_

Karen closed the diary and put it down. "That's all," she said.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Father Hunt

_Chapter 2 – The Father Hunt_

_Karen_

Karen arrived at the office first the next morning. She had spent the night before at her own apartment, after Matt decided Daredevil needed to pay a visit to a drug dealer who'd recently set up shop in Hell's Kitchen. She knew this was a pretext. What he really wanted was an excuse to hit someone. After reading Sister Dora's diary, she felt the same way herself.

As soon as she put her oversized handbag down on her desk, her phone trilled. She pulled it out of her bag and answered the call.

Maggie skipped the pleasantries. "One of our older sisters recognized the people in the photograph," she said. "You and Matthew are going to want to talk to her."

"Good," Karen said. "Who are they?"

"She insists on telling you herself," Maggie said.

"Um, OK. When can we see her?"

"This morning would be best," Maggie replied. "Sister Bernadette is almost 90. Her mind's all there, but physically she's very frail. Can you be here at 11?"

"You got it. And thank you."

Karen went to end the call, but before she could do so, Maggie asked, "Did you learn anything from Dora's diary?"

"Yes," Karen said slowly. She gave Maggie an abbreviated, watered-down version of the diary's contents. She didn't have to spell out the ugly details; Maggie could fill in the blanks without being told.

"Dear God," Maggie breathed. "That poor child, subjected to such . . . evil. Dora never said a word. I must go. I need to pray for her." She ended the call.

It was a few minutes before 11 o'clock when Karen and Matt walked into Maggie's office. An elderly woman, in a full habit, was already there, seated next to Maggie on the couch. A walker stood in the corner.

Maggie rose from the couch when they entered. "Matthew, you remember Sister Bernadette, don't you?" she said.

"I do," Matt replied. He bowed his head in Sister Bernadette's direction and said, "Sister."

"And this," Maggie said, indicating Karen, "is Karen Page, who works for Matthew's law firm as an investigator."

"Sister Bernadette," Karen said, bowing her head as she'd seen Matt do. "It's a pleasure to meet you. And thank you for meeting with us."

Sister Bernadette spoke for the first time. "I only hope I can be of help. Please, sit," she said, waving her hand. Karen and Matt pulled up chairs and sat opposite the two nuns.

As she and Matt had agreed on the way to the orphanage, Karen took the lead. "I understand from Sister Maggie that you recognize the people in the photograph we found in Sister Dora's belongings."

"I do."

"Who are they?"

Maggie handed the photograph to the older nun, who leaned forward to show it to Karen. "The girl is Kathleen McBride," Sister Bernadette said, pointing to her image. "She was one of my pupils when she was in sixth grade. Everyone called her 'Katie.' The woman and the red-haired man are her mother and father, Mary Jo and Patrick McBride." As Sister Bernadette spoke, Karen realized Maggie's assessment was correct. The elderly woman's face was lined and wrinkled, and she obviously was physically frail. The walker was evidence of that. But clearly she was in possession of all of her faculties.

"Do you know what happened to them?" Karen asked.

Sister Bernadette nodded. "They were duped by a charlatan, a con man, claiming to be a man of God," she said scornfully. "He called himself Jacob." She sniffed. "He was no more a man of God than I am."

"Is he the other man in the photo?" Karen asked.

"I don't know. I never saw him," Sister Bernadette replied.

"How did you know about Jacob?"

"People like him turn up from time to time in Hell's Kitchen, trying to lure people away from the church. We keep a look-out for these snake-oil salesmen, trying to prevent them from leading our people astray." Sister Bernadette shook her head sadly. "But he got his hooks into Mary Jo and Patrick. During the summer – I think it was after Katie finished seventh grade – they packed up and left. We never saw any of them again. Or so I thought, until yesterday."

"Do you know where they went?"

"Not specifically. Sister Dora never talked about her family or her childhood or where she grew up, but she let a few things slip. Once she mentioned swimming in a lake, somewhere upstate, and how cold it was. And she made a comment once about our communal meals and how they were so much better than the ones she had as a girl."

"Like maybe she lived in a commune, or something like that?" Karen suggested.

"Could be," Sister Bernadette agreed. She fell silent, apparently remembering. "Katie was such a bright young girl. She was one of my best students. She loved math and science, which was unusual for a girl in those days." She paused for a moment. "Now that I think of it, Matthew, your father was in the same class as Katie. I always thought she might have been sweet on him."

Karen and Maggie exchanged surprised glances. Matt looked bemused.

Sister Bernadette sighed. "That poor child. Maggie told me a little about what she went through, with that Jacob, after the family left. It breaks my heart to think of it. And I still can't believe I didn't recognize her when she turned up here, asking to join us. None of us recognized her."

"You couldn't have known," Maggie told her reassuringly. "You hadn't seen her in six years, and she gave you a different name. There was no reason to connect 'Doreen Sullivan' with Katie McBride."

"Maybe not," Sister Bernadette conceded. "She told us she was 18, but she looked older. Do you know where she was or what she was doing after her son was born and before she came here?"

Karen shook her head. "No idea. That time is a complete blank. According to the hospital records in the adoption file, she took off after a social worker came to see her. Probably afraid of being sent back to her parents – and Jacob."

"Whatever happened to her during that time, it must have been hard. It aged her," Sister Bernadette commented. Then she turned to Matt. "You remember Sister Dora, don't you?" she asked.

Matt smiled. "I do. She was one of the few teachers I could argue with, and not get smacked down."

"That sounds like her. She would have wanted you to exercise your mind, as she called it. Oh, she would have been so proud of you, becoming a lawyer."

"Oh, um," Matt stammered, looking embarrassed.

Before he could say anything else, Sister Bernadette added, in a low voice, "Not sure about the other thing, though."

Karen stifled a gasp and gave Sister Maggie an alarmed look. Maggie's only response was a little shrug, followed by a pointed look at her wristwatch. Karen got the message. Time to wrap this up. She rose from her chair and spoke to Sister Bernadette.

"Thank you, Sister, you've been a big help."

"I hope so," the elderly nun replied.

"You have," Karen assured her. "Thank you."

Matt got to his feet. "Yes, thank you, Sister." He nodded to Maggie, then followed Karen out of the office.

They were a couple of blocks away from the orphanage when Karen decided to ask the question that had been on her mind ever since Sister Bernadette's comment about Daredevil.

"Sister Bernadette knows – about you?" she asked.

"Apparently so," Matt replied with a pained half-grin. "I think all the nuns do. They found out when they took me in after Midland Circle."

"Oh. I knew Maggie knew, and maybe a few others, but all of them?"

"You think _you_ could keep a secret from Sister Bernadette?"

Karen had no answer to that. She laughed and kept walking.

_Sister Dora_

Sister Dora smiled to herself as she walked out of the chapel at the end of morning prayers. Today was her fourth "anniversary" – four years since she took her final vows. She was no longer the frightened teenager who had shown up at St. Agnes seven years earlier, looking for – what? A purpose? Absolution? Safety? Whatever it was, she had found it here. After a year passed, then two, without anyone coming to look for her, she began to feel safe. The flashbacks and nightmares gradually became less frequent. She told no one about her life "before" or about the son she'd given birth to and given up. Her rational mind told her she had done nothing wrong, she was a victim of an evil man, but she still felt shame and guilt. She sometimes wondered what became of her son, but she didn't second-guess her decision to give him up. She also wondered what happened to her parents, but she knew they were lost to her. She forgave them. They were Jacob's victims, too. And maybe, just maybe, the suffering she'd endured was part of God's plan for her, because it had brought her here, to her true home. Soon, she would complete her education and become a fully-credentialed teacher. And she and her sisters would soon welcome three new sisters into their family: Ellen Robinson, Ingrid Newman, and Margaret Grace.

For one of them, it was not to be. Sister Dora was one of the first to know, but within minutes, it seemed, the shocking news was on everyone's lips. With only a few weeks to go before her final vows, Margaret Grace was leaving them – to marry Jack Murdock. The cynics among them (yes, a nun could be a cynic) scoffed that she must be pregnant. Dora wasn't so sure. She'd seen it before: a young woman questioning her calling, on the eve of her final vows, especially when a man was involved. And she couldn't blame Maggie. She wasn't the first woman to succumb to the well-known Murdock charm and lose herself in Jack's blue eyes. In the end, events proved Dora was correct: Maggie and Jack's son, Matthew Michael, was born more than a year after their marriage.

The little family's happiness was short-lived. Only two months after Matthew's birth, a panicked Jack came to see Father Lantom. Something was wrong, very wrong, with Maggie. After Jack left him, Father Lantom sought out Sister Dora.

"Jack is beside himself," he said. "He doesn't know what to do. And, frankly, neither do I. How am I supposed to know about these female things?"

"What's the problem?" Dora asked, taking a seat across from him in his office in the rectory.

"Jack says Maggie hasn't been herself. It started a couple of weeks after the baby was born, and he thinks it's getting worse."

"'Not herself'? How?"

"She's not sleeping or eating. She doesn't seem to have an interest in anything, even the baby. Or maybe I should say, especially the baby. Several times, when Jack's come home from training, the baby has been crying his heart out, wet – or worse – and hungry. Maggie's just sitting there, staring into space."

"The 'baby blues'," Dora said.

"The what?"

"That's what my mother called it. She said a lot of women have them. One of our neighbors did. But this sounds worse."

Father Lantom nodded gravely. "I think it might be. Jack said she was 'talking crazy' last night. That's why he came to see me today."

"'Talking crazy'?"

"She said something about how God didn't want her to be a mother, and something about Matthew drowning in the bath."

Dora stared at him, horrified. "We need to go to them. _Now._"

When Jack admitted her and Father Lantom to the Murdocks' small apartment, Dora was shocked to see the change in Maggie. The bright, engaging young woman she had known had disappeared. In her place was a hollow-eyed woman, sitting listlessly on the daybed. She refused to make eye contact and answered in monosyllables or indifferent shrugs when Father Lantom spoke to her. He and Dora exchanged worried looks, then stepped into the kitchen to speak with Jack. Matthew was asleep in his crib, safe for the moment.

"Is she still 'talking crazy' today?" Father Lantom asked. Jack nodded dejectedly. "Then we shouldn't leave her alone with the baby. She can stay at St. Agnes until she's better. You can bring Matthew to the nursery, and we'll look after him while you train."

"OK," Jack agreed.

"We'll get a room ready for her. Can you stay with her, maybe pack some of her things while we're gone?" Dora asked.

Jack nodded. "Yes, I can do that."

"Then we'll be back soon."

Sister Dora and Father Lantom returned an hour later, accompanied by Sister Ellen and Sister Ingrid. Maggie didn't protest when they told her she was coming with them to St. Agnes.

_Karen_

When Foggy returned from court in the afternoon, after Karen and Matt's meeting with Sister Bernadette, they gathered in Karen's office. After she brought Foggy up to date on the investigation he insisted on calling "the father hunt," he frowned and asked, "So, we think this Jacob creep was using the cult to get access to young girls?"

Matt nodded grimly. "It looks like that, yeah."

"Jesus," Foggy breathed. "That's sick."

"Beyond sick," Karen said. "And guys like him, they don't stop. He could still be doing it."

"So what do we do now?" Foggy asked.

"We find him, and we stop him," Matt declared.

"But how? It's not like we have a lot to go on."

"Maybe not," Karen said, "but I think we have enough to start looking. I think our best lead is the place itself, 'Heavenly Home'."

"But you said yesterday that there were hundreds of places upstate that could be it," Matt protested.

"I know," Karen replied, "but I've been thinking about it and looking at maps since then, and I think we can narrow the search. We know Katie ended up in Troy, where Scott was born. A pregnant 15-year-old couldn't have gotten far, so it must be somewhere in the area."

"But how does that narrow the search?" Foggy asked.

"When I was looking at a map of the area, I noticed that there are a lot of lakes, but not many towns. And they're small towns. People in small towns notice outsiders. Trust me, I know. I grew up in a small town. If Jacob and his followers were anywhere near one of those towns, people noticed. We just have to hope someone remembers them."

"So – ?" Matt asked.

"So I'm going on a road trip."

On day two of her road trip, Karen drove into the small town of Rainesville, on the shores of Sawgatuck Lake. The first day had been a bust. No one she talked to remembered a cult or commune called "Heavenly Home" or knew anyone named McBride or Jacob. Karen was sure she was asking the right questions. She only needed to find the right people to ask.

Rainesville was a pretty town, tucked between the lake and the line of low hills she drove across to get there from the interstate. The two-lane state highway became Main Street when she entered the town, its border marked by a sign informing her that Rainesville was founded in 1823. In the center of town, the street was lined with shops and other small businesses. They seemed to have plenty of customers, with parked cars filling most of the spaces in the business district. Apparently the "superstores" hadn't yet swooped down on Rainesville and put the locals out of business. The town reminded her a little of her own hometown. It looked more prosperous than Fagan Corners, Vermont, but not all that different.

City Hall, a two-story painted brick structure, occupied the block at the far end of the business district. The Sheriff's office was in one wing of the building, with its own entrance to the left of the main entrance. That would be her first stop. She found a parking place and entered the building through the door with the sign reading, "Sheriff's Department, Aaron Kemp, Sheriff." She presented her business card and P.I. license to the woman in a tan uniform sitting behind the counter, before reciting the narrative she'd worked out over the last couple of days. It was the truth, for the most part, omitting only the ugliest details. The woman listened to what she had to say, then gestured to the bench along the wall to the right. "Have a seat. I'll see if someone is available to speak with you." She picked up the phone and murmured into it, too quietly for Karen to hear what she was saying.

Karen only had to wait a few minutes before a door behind the counter opened, and a man emerged into the outer office. He, too, wore a tan uniform, and he walked with the rolling gait of a long-time law enforcement officer, probably from years of wearing a Sam Browne belt. He appeared to be in his fifties, his thinning dark hair just starting to go gray.

Karen got to her feet as he walked toward her and extended his hand. "Miss Page," he said. "Aaron Kemp." She shook his hand and followed him down a hallway to his office. "Please, have a seat," he said, gesturing toward a chair.

"Thank you for seeing me, Sheriff," she said as she sat down.

"Deputy Harrison tells me you're looking for a missing person," Kemp began.

"Not exactly. Our client is a man who was adopted as an infant and needs to trace his biological parents, for medical reasons. He was able to identify and locate his biological mother, but she died several years ago. He's still hoping to find his biological father, but we don't have a lot to go on."

"What brings you to Rainesville?" Kemp asked.

Karen outlined the reasoning that had led her to look in the area, then got out the photograph. When she mentioned the date on it, Kemp held up a hand to stop her.

"1975?" he asked. When Karen nodded, he said, "That's way before my time."

"Oh," Karen said, disappointed. Then she regrouped. "Is there anyone else I can talk to, anyone who was around back then?"

"No one currently with the department," Kemp told her. He ran a hand through his hair. "But there might be someone. Hold on a minute." He stood up and walked out of the office. Karen heard him calling, "Hey, Ted!" but nothing else. He returned several minutes later, holding out a slip of paper. "My predecessor," he said. "If that commune was anywhere around here, he'll know about it. He's expecting you. Good luck."

Karen took the slip of paper and stood up. "Thank you, Sheriff," she said and turned to leave.

The address Sheriff Kemp gave her was on a secondary road, several miles south of the town. She pulled into the driveway, got out of the car, and walked up to the front porch of a white clapboard house that reminded her of the house she grew up in. The man who answered the door looked to be in his seventies, with a full head of white hair. He was casually dressed, in blue jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. "Miss Page?" he asked, stepping back to let her enter.

"Karen Page," she said holding out her hand.

"Ralph Williams," he replied, shaking her hand. His grip was firm, his voice strong.

"Thank you for agreeing to see me, Sheriff Williams."

"Ralph, please," he said. "And it's no trouble. It's nice to know the folks down at the department know I'm still alive." He smiled, taking the sting out of his words.

Karen followed him into a living room that was furnished more for comfort than for show. Two wing chairs flanked the Delft tile fireplace. He took a seat in one of them. Karen sat in the other, facing him.

"How can I help you?" Williams asked.

"I'm on what one of the lawyers I work with insists on calling a 'father hunt.' Our client is a man who was adopted as an infant and has been trying to locate his biological parents. He was able to identify his birth mother and found out where she was living, in Hell's Kitchen, in the City. Unfortunately, she died several years ago."

"Unfortunate," Williams agreed, nodding solemnly.

"Our client was able to locate some of his biological mother's papers, and a photograph. They lead us to believe she was living in a commune, or something like that, when he was conceived in 1977."

"What's the father's name?"

"We only know his first name," Karen said. "We believe he was the leader of the commune, who went by the name of Jacob." She held out the photo. "He may be the brown-haired man in this picture."

Williams took the photo and studied it for several minutes, turning on a lamp and putting on a pair of glasses to get a better look. He sighed as he put it down. "He looks familiar, but I can't be sure. We're talking about someone I might have seen a couple of times, going on 40 years ago."

"I understand," Karen told him. After a moment, she continued, "The client's mother ran away after she discovered she was pregnant. She gave birth to our client in Troy. We're assuming a pregnant teenager couldn't have gotten very far, so we're looking within about a 20-mile radius of Troy."

Williams nodded. "Makes sense."

"She described the commune as a few cabins near a lake. We think it was called 'Heavenly Home'."

"'Heavenly Home'?" Williams asked.

"Yes."

The retired sheriff rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then nodded. "I remember the place."

"The other people in the photo are our client's biological mother, Katie McBride, and her parents, Mary Jo and Patrick McBride," Karen said. "Do you recognize them?

Williams took another look at the photograph, then shook his head. "Sorry, no. And I don't remember anyone named McBride. Those folks kept to themselves, most of the time. I thought it might be one of them cults, you know, more than a commune."

"I think you may be right about that," Karen commented. "What happened to them?"

"Who knows?" Williams shrugged. "Bunch of hippies. All I know is, they were there one day, and then they were gone. Just up and left. No one's lived there since."

"Do you know where the place was?"

"That I can help you with," Williams said. He opened a drawer and took out a pad of paper and a pen. He drew a rough map as he spoke. "It was off County Road 32, about seven miles north of town. Look for a dirt road going off to the left, about half a mile after you pass an abandoned gas station." He handed her the map. "But no one has lived there for years, like I said. Why d'you want to go there?"

"I'm not sure," Karen admitted. "I just have a feeling . . . I need to see it."

Williams stood up. "I wish you luck, you and your client. I hope you and he find what you're looking for."

"Me, too," Karen agreed as she got to her feet and picked up her purse. "Thank you for your help."

Following Williams's directions, Karen drove back through the town, then north on County Road 32. She slowed when she passed the shuttered gas station and started looking for the dirt road on her left. Even so, she almost missed it. She bumped down the track, now partially overgrown, until she reached a gate. She got out of the car and surveyed the scene on the other side of the gate: a row of six cabins, now derelict, and a larger, two-story building to her left, surrounded on three sides by dense forest, the land on the fourth side sloping down to the lake. It was exactly as Katie described it in her diary. This had to be the place. Then she noticed a piece of wood nailed to one of the gateposts. She went over to it and looked at it more closely. It was a hand painted sign. A lot of the paint had worn off after 40 years of exposure to the elements, but enough remained that she could make out the words: "Heavenly Home." This was the place. She took out her phone and used the navigation app to record the location's coordinates.

Karen considered climbing over the gate and taking a look around, but decided against it. The answers she was looking for weren't here. Besides, the place gave her the creeps, because of what she knew and suspected had happened here. She had no desire to stay any longer than necessary. She got back in her car, turned around, and headed back down the dirt road. As she drove, it occurred to her that the dirt road wasn't overgrown to the same extent as the camp. Apparently, other vehicles traveled the road from time to time. She wondered why anyone would do so, since the road didn't seem to lead anywhere but "Heavenly Home." She gave a mental shrug. Probably just local kids, looking for a place to hang out, drink or smoke weed, and have sex. Before turning onto the county road, she stopped again. A mailbox stood at the end of the dirt road. She got out of her car and copied the address stenciled on the mailbox: 12526 County Road 32. Satisfied she had learned all she could in Rainesville, she turned her car in the direction of Troy, the county seat. Tomorrow, she'd see what she could find out at the County Clerk's office.

_Sister Dora_

Under the care of the nuns, Maggie slowly recovered from the "baby blues." When Father Lantom deemed she was sufficiently recovered to return home, he called her into his office. Sister Dora joined them. The two women stood in front of his desk.

"You're looking well, Maggie," Father Lantom began.

"I am well," she replied formally. "Thank you for everything you've done for me."

"Now that you're well," Father Lantom said, "it's time for you to return home, to your husband and your son."

The color drained from Maggie's face. "I . . . can't."

Father Lantom furrowed his brow. "What you do you mean, you can't?"

"I was never meant to be a mother," Maggie replied.

"But you are a mother," Father Lantom pointed out. "You have a husband and a son who need you."

"They're better off without me," Maggie declared.

"You can't mean that," Sister Dora objected.

"I wasn't good for them."

"You had a medical condition," Sister Dora told her. "That doesn't mean you can't be a mother."

"That's not the reason."

"Then what is?" Sister Dora asked.

She clutched the crucifix hanging around her neck, then said, "I committed an unforgivable sin. I heard God's call, and I turned my back on Him and walked away. I did that once. I can't do it again."

"What are you saying, Maggie?" Father Lantom asked.

"I want to do what I was called to do. I want to finish my novitiate and take my vows."

Father Lantom and Sister Dora exchanged shocked looks. Dora found her voice first. "But that's impossible," she said. "You're a married woman."

"But – " Maggie began.

"No 'buts'," Father Lantom said firmly. "I can't force you to return to your family, but Sister Dora is correct. Joining the order is out of the question." He stood up and gave Maggie a stern look. Dora saw tears spring to her eyes. "You need to seek God's guidance. Pray, and He will show you the way. I'll pray, too, and we'll talk again."

It was a dismissal. Maggie and Sister Dora left.

If Maggie followed Father Lantom's admonition to pray for guidance, it didn't have the intended effect. She remained adamant that she would not return to her husband and son. Father Lantom was constrained by an unbendable rule: a married woman could not become a nun. Sister Dora finally came up with a solution to the impasse: Maggie would stay on at the orphanage as a lay child care worker. Despite her claims that she couldn't be a mother, she was good with the children. The orphanage would provide room and board and pay her the minimum wage. Both Maggie and Father Lantom agreed.

Maggie never returned to the Murdocks' tiny apartment. Jack raised his son alone, telling the boy his mother had died. Matthew went to day care and pre-school at St. Agnes, and when he was old enough to start school, Jack enrolled him in the parish school. He was the brightest boy in his class and was sometimes taunted by the other boys when he didn't join in their roughhousing. But outwardly, he seemed happy enough. Jack continued his boxing career, apparently earning enough money to keep food on the table and a roof over his and Matthew's heads. Dora thought they probably shouldn't look too closely at how he made his money. From time to time, she saw Maggie standing at the far end of the playground, watching Matthew during recess. But as far as she knew, Maggie never reconsidered her decision not to return to her husband and son.

Then tragedy struck. One afternoon, while he was walking home from school, nine-year-old Matthew pushed an elderly man out of the path of an oncoming truck. He was blinded by the chemicals that spilled from the truck when it rolled onto its side. Maggie was distraught when she heard the news, but she told Dora she agreed with Jack that this was not the time for Matthew to learn his mother was alive.

Sister Dora and the other teachers welcomed Matthew back to the school a couple of months after the accident. He had quickly learned Braille and mobility skills and seemed to be adjusting to his new life without sight. Dora knew better. There was an anger in him, just below the surface, waiting to erupt. Like when he got back at the boys who taunted him, by "accidentally" tripping them with his cane. As the months passed, Sister Dora noticed there was something different about Matthew, something other than his blindness. He didn't react to everyday sounds like the other pupils. When the bell rang, signaling the end of class, he jerked as if he'd received an electric shock. Sometimes, he would start to raise his hands to cover his ears. She'd heard that blind people could hear better, to compensate for the loss of their sight. Maybe that's all it was. But there were other things. Matthew seemed to know things that a blind boy shouldn't be able to know. Dora told herself it was just her imagination. After all, the school had never had a blind pupil before. What did they know about what a blind boy could and couldn't do?

Then, barely a year after the accident, tragedy struck again. Jack was murdered, his body dumped in a Hell's Kitchen alley. Father Lantom and Sister Dora were summoned to the 15th Precinct, where the officers at the scene had taken Matthew. A middle-aged African-American man with a sergeant's stripes on his uniform came out from behind the desk to meet them.

"Sergeant George Mahoney," he said. "We spoke on the phone. You must be Father Lantom and Sister Dora. Thank you for coming."

"Of course," Father Lantom replied. "What can we do?"

"The victim's son, Matthew – " Mahoney began.

"Yes, yes, where is he?" Father Lantom interrupted.

"He's here, he's safe. We put him in the lieutenant's office to wait for you." Mahoney ran a hand over his short-cropped hair. "It was the damnedest thing – sorry, Father, Sister – he came running up to the scene. The officers said he seemed to know the victim was his father. But the boy's blind. Isn't he?"

"He is," Sister Dora assured Mahoney.

"So how did he know?"

Sister Dora shook her head. "I don't know." She paused for a moment, then repeated Father Lantom's earlier question. "What can we do?"

"Oh. Right. We were gonna call Children's Services, like we usually do in cases like this. But the detectives came back from the victim's apartment with this." Mahoney handed an envelope to Father Lantom. "It's OK, you can open it."

Father Lantom took a piece of paper out of the envelope and read aloud, "To Whom It May Concern: In the event of my demise, I want the St. Agnes Orphanage at the Clinton Church to be the guardian of my son, Matthew Michael Murdock. Signed, Jonathan Murdock." He put the paper back in the envelope and handed it back to Mahoney. "Of course, we'll be happy to take him," he said. "May we see him now?"

"Sure," Mahoney replied. "This way." He led the priest and the nun to an unoccupied office and opened the door. "In here."

Sister Dora gasped when she saw Matthew sitting on the couch. He looked like she imagined children in war-torn countries looked, children who had seen and endured things their young minds couldn't fathom. He was hunched over, hugging himself. He raised his head when she and Father Lantom entered the room. He wasn't crying, but his eyes were red-rimmed, and she could see the tracks of dried tears on his cheeks. Her heart ached for him.

"It's Father Lantom," the priest said, "and Sister Dora. We heard what happened and came right away. I am so, so sorry, Matthew."

Matthew sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand but didn't say anything.

"You can come back to St. Agnes with us," Father Lantom said gently, "if you like."

Matthew nodded. "OK." He stood up to follow them, then said. "He won."

"I'm sorry, Matthew, what?" Sister Dora asked.

"He won the fight. Then they killed him."

She felt tears welling up in her eyes. She blinked them back. "Heavenly Father," she prayed silently, "help me to help Matthew, and watch over and comfort him."

Matthew picked up his cane and followed the priest and the nun out of the police station.

A few weeks later, the time had come to speak to Maggie about her future – and Matthew's. Sister Dora went with her to Father Lantom's office. After Dora and Maggie declined his offer of coffee, they sat around his small work table to talk.

"Have you decided?" Father Lantom asked.

Maggie nodded. "Yes."

"And – ?" he prompted.

Maggie looked first at Sister Dora, then at Father Lantom, as if trying to gauge their reactions to what she was about to say. She took a deep breath before she spoke. "I've thought about this, a lot, and I've prayed. Jack wanted Matthew to be raised here. I think he was right."

"But you're his mother," Dora objected.

"No," Maggie corrected her. "I gave birth to him. I was never a mother to him. Not really."

"And now you can be," Dora pointed out.

Maggie shook her head. "Jack didn't only know what's best for Matthew. He knew me. He knew I couldn't raise Matthew, not on my own. Matthew should stay here. I will, too. I'll complete my novitiate and take my vows. I can help raise him here, just not as his mother."

Father Lantom frowned. "I don't know about this," he said. "I need to think about it, and pray. And consult Mother Elizabeth."

"I don't believe this," Dora said scathingly. "You're going to let that poor child – _your own son _– believe he's alone in this world."

"We can't tell him now," Maggie insisted, "it will only confuse him. We need to give him time to grieve, time to adjust. And it will hurt him to know his father kept this secret from him."

"All right," Father Lantom agreed reluctantly. "But you need to tell him."

"I will," Maggie promised, "at the right time."

Eventually, Mother Elizabeth acceded to Maggie's request. Now a widow, she was permitted to complete her novitiate and join the order. As Sister Maggie, she watched over Matthew as he grew to manhood. Somehow, it never was the right time to tell him.

_Karen_

Karen was at the County Clerk's office a few minutes after it opened for business at 8:30 the next morning. She signed in and waited for her name to be called. When she heard her name, she went to the counter and told the clerk what she was looking for.

"Our digital records only go back to 1989," said the clerk, whose employee badge identified her as "Marietta Hawkins." "Records from the '70s are on microfilm."

Karen groaned inwardly. Microfilm searches were one of the worst parts of her job. She sighed. Might as well get it over with.

"Do you have the parcel number?" Marietta was asking.

"No," Karen said, "only the street address."

"No problem," Marietta said. "Just go to one of those terminals over there – " She gestured toward the counter on the opposite side of the room. " – and put in the address, and it should give you the parcel number. Then come back and we'll get you set up in the microfilm room."

Two hours later, Karen was still staring at the microfilm viewer, wondering if she was ever going to find what she was looking for. Five more minutes, she told herself. Then she'd give her dry eyes and aching neck a break. She spooled through a few more frames. There it was: a quitclaim deed dated April 23, 1973, from an Alan Mathis in Rochester, to Jacob Sundstrom, whose address was – her eyes grew wide – in Hell's Kitchen. "Bingo," she whispered. But her work wasn't finished. She needed to know who owned the property now. There was nothing else on microfilm, so she went back to one of the terminals and searched the digital records. Her search turned up a single deed, dated in 1991, from Jacob Sundstrom, then apparently living in Albany, to a James Sunday, residing in Jericho on Long Island. She paid for copies of both deeds and went out to her car. Time to hit the road.

A couple of hours later, as she got closer to the city, she noticed the internal buzz of the low-grade anxiety that was a constant presence in her life, these days. Funny thing, she hadn't noticed it the last couple of days, not since she left the city. It was as if she'd left her life in the city behind and returned to the "real" world, where "normal" people lived "normal" lives. She wasn't going to kid herself. The people she'd met upstate struggled and had problems like everyone else. And life in a small town could become very nasty very quickly, if people turned against you. But these problems were "normal" problems, inherent in the human condition. Not like almost being killed in her own apartment by an assassin sent by the Russian mob. Or being kidnapped by ninjas in the service of the Hand. Or being hunted by a murderous psychopath in Daredevil's suit, working for New York City's most powerful crime boss. Or seeing a good man, a priest, sacrifice himself to save her from that same psychopath. Compared to all that, a "normal" life with "normal" problems didn't seem so bad.

Now she was going back to her life. Her anxiety ratcheted up with every mile she drove. After only a few days away, she felt like she was seeing her life clearly for the first time. It was as if she was standing outside her life, looking in. Viewed from that perspective, her life seemed unreal . . . crazy, even. She wasn't sure she could live that life anymore. But it was also a life that included the people she loved, Matt and Foggy, who had become her family. She couldn't bear to think of leaving them – or the work they were doing, helping people as only the three of them could.

She was back in the city now, heading downtown on the West Side Highway. When she reached the turn for the office, she kept going and went straight home. Once there, she sent short texts to Matt and Foggy, saying she'd see them in the morning. She needed some time to herself. Time to think.

_Author's Note:_ You won't find Sawgatuck Lake or the town of Rainesville on any maps. They're made-up places.

I love the character of Maggie as she is written in season three and portrayed (so wonderfully) by Joanne Whalley. But I have one nitpick about her back story, which I have addressed in this story. As a married woman, she could not simply leave her husband and son to become a nun. She could not have become a nun until after Jack's death. In real life, Maggie probably would have been under considerable pressure to return to Jack and Matthew (more than in this story). I suppose she might have tried to obtain an annulment, but as far as I know, that didn't happen in either the TV series or the comics. Maggie also would not have been able to become a nun as long as Matthew was a minor and her dependent. In the story, she avoids this obstacle because Jack appoints the orphanage as Matthew's guardian. I doubt this would work in real life, however.


	3. Chapter 3 - Pastor Sunday

_Chapter 3_ _– Pastor Sunday_

_Matt_

Matt smiled to himself when he heard Karen's footsteps approaching the office, the morning after her return from upstate. She was only gone for a few days, but he had missed her. He hoped she had missed him, too, but he wasn't sure about that, after the cryptic text she sent last night.

When he heard the outer door open, he got to his feet and went to greet her. "Welcome back," he said, pulling her toward him for a kiss. She kissed him back, but without enthusiasm. "What the hell?" he asked himself.

She broke away from him and headed for her office, where she dropped her briefcase on the desk and called out, "Foggy!"

Foggy appeared in the doorway. "Welcome back," he said. "You found out something upstate?"

"I did. I got a name. Two names, actually."

Foggy pulled up a chair and sat down. Matt did the same.

"Jacob Sundstrom," Karen said. "He owned the 'Heavenly Home' property, acquired it in 1973. And he was living in Hell's Kitchen at the time."

"He's gotta be Jacob," Foggy said.

Karen nodded. "I think so."

"Any leads on where he is now?" Matt asked.

"That's where the second name comes in. Jacob transferred the property to a James Sunday in 1991. As far as I can tell from the records, Sunday is still the owner of the property."

"You think this Sunday can lead us to Jacob?" Foggy asked.

"No," Karen replied. "I think he _is_ Jacob. After I got home last night, I took a closer look at the copies of the deeds for the property." She pulled them out of her briefcase and handed them to Foggy. "Take a look. I'm not a handwriting expert, but the signatures on the deed from 1991 look a lot alike. So I did some digging. The databases I use for skip traces have nothing on anyone named Jacob Sundstrom who's also the right age to be 'Jacob.' But there's a ton of information on James Sunday, who happens to be the founder and chief pastor of a megachurch out on Long Island, known as the 'Circle of Life Fellowship'."

"It's the same con," Matt said.

"And maybe for the same purpose," Foggy pointed out grimly.

"Damn," Matt muttered. He stood up and started pacing back and forth.

"That's not all," Karen said. "There's nothing on Sunday before the late eighties. It's a total blank."

"So, 'Jacob Sundstrom' became 'James Sunday," Foggy said.

"That's what I'm thinking," Karen agreed. "And one more thing. Sunday is pretty high profile, so there are lots of photos of him on the Internet. He's a lot older now, so it's hard to see a resemblance to the man in Sister Dora's photograph, but he's about the right age. And in some of the photos, if you zoom in, you can see a scar on his forehead."

Matt stopped pacing and turned to face Karen. "Katie. The pipe wrench," he said.

"Exactly."

"Time to pay a visit to 'Pastor Sunday'," Matt said.

Karen and Foggy nodded.

As it happened, it was three days before they could make the trip to Long Island. Matt had a two-day arbitration that couldn't be re-scheduled, and he insisted on going with her to see Sunday. "If he's Jacob," he said, "he's gonna lie, a lot. You need me so we know when he's lying." Karen reluctantly agreed.

Matt spent the rest of the day preparing for the arbitration, reviewing depositions and documents and meeting with the client. When he took a break, he found himself wondering what was going on with Karen. He couldn't come up with an answer. Everything seemed good between them, before her trip upstate. And there was no hint of anything wrong in her words or her voice, during their nightly phone conversations while she was away. Maybe something happened on the last day of the trip. Or maybe it was just Karen being Karen, hyper-focused on finding Jacob and bringing him down. It wouldn't be the first time he'd seen her like that. He frowned and got back to work. Figuring out the answer would have to wait until after the arbitration.

Karen slipped out of the office early that afternoon, saying she was going to interview a witness in the _Fitzgerald_ case. When Matt called her later to ask if she was coming over that night, she didn't pick up. She replied to his voicemail with another cryptic text, "Sorry. Tired. See u tomorrow." But when Matt came back to the office at the end of the next day, after the first day of the arbitration, she wasn't there. Baffled and more than a little worried, he resignedly packed up his briefcase and went home, to prepare for the second day of the arbitration. His voicemail that evening went unanswered.

The next evening, Foggy and Matt went to Josie's. Matt needed to decompress after the two-day arbitration. It had gone well, he thought. No witnesses blurting out things unexpectedly or other unpleasant surprises during his case. And he'd been able to catch a couple of the defense witnesses in lies during the defense case. Maybe hearing the witnesses' heartbeats gave him an unfair advantage, but he'd take it. After all, he couldn't see their "tells" when they lied. As far as he was concerned, his ability to hear their heartbeats merely leveled the playing field.

They'd invited Karen to join them, but she begged off, with a vague excuse about "stuff" she needed to do. Matt wasn't buying it. He signaled Josie for a refill, then asked Foggy, "Is something going on with Karen?"

Foggy shrugged. "You're asking me?"

"Yeah, I am," Matt said. "There's something different about her, ever since she got back from upstate. It's like she's . . . distant, you know?"

Foggy thought for a moment, then took a sip of his beer. When he put the bottle down, he said, "I think you're right, come to think of it. What did you do?"

"Honest to God, I don't know," Matt said, twirling his empty glass in his hands. After Josie refilled it, he continued, "I've been wracking my brains, but I can't think of anything. Everything was fine until she went upstate. Maybe something happened while she was there?"

"What could have happened?" Foggy asked. "She was working the whole time. Nope, it has to be something you did. Occam's Razor, buddy."

"But I didn't do anything, I swear," Matt protested.

"You must have," Foggy argued. "There's an easy way to find out, you know. It's called talking to her."

Matt groaned and finished off his Scotch in one gulp.

_Karen_

Karen wasn't happy about having to wait three days to see Pastor Sunday. She thought the real reason was Matt's over-protective tendencies, but she'd learned to choose her battles. She wasn't going to win this one, so she agreed to the delay. She called the church and scheduled the appointment, telling Sunday's secretary they had a client who was interested in purchasing some property he owned upstate.

Karen decided to drive to the appointment, so she and Matt walked from the brownstone to her car, parked several blocks away. "Finally," she muttered under her breath as she slipped into the driver's seat and unlocked the passenger door for Matt.

Matt heard her, of course. "Sorry about that," he said as he fastened his seat belt.

She waved it off. "No problem."

There wasn't much conversation on the way. It wasn't a comfortable silence. Ever since she returned from upstate, Karen had thrown herself into her work, avoiding Matt and Foggy, and trying not to think about what was really on her mind. Matt and Foggy had to know something was bothering her, but she wasn't ready to talk about it. She didn't know how she felt. And this was not the time, anyway. It was not a conversation she wanted to have while she was battling the traffic on the Long Island Expressway.

After more than an hour on the road, Karen pulled into the parking lot at the Circle of Life Fellowship in the small town of Jericho on Long Island. "Holy shit," she said, taking in the modern, cream-colored structure, topped by a metal cross, that occupied most of a city block. It was flanked by several smaller buildings. The grounds surrounding them were landscaped and looked well-maintained. "It's huge," she told Matt.

"Well, you did say it was a 'megachurch'," he quipped. Karen didn't bother to respond.

They got out of the car and walked across the parking lot to the main entrance. There they gave their names to the woman sitting behind a reception desk. "Welcome to the Circle of Life," she said in a pleasant voice. "He's expecting you. Follow me, please."

When she stood up, Karen was surprised to see how petite she was, no more than 5'2" tall. In her mid-fifties, she was dressed in a simple shirtwaist dress in a floral print and low-heeled shoes. Her light-brown hair was done in a bouffant style that had gone out of fashion decades ago. "A little _Stepford_-ish," Karen thought. As they followed the woman through a maze of corridors, they passed several other women, similarly attired. "Yep, definitely _Stepford_," Karen decided.

They reached the far end of the building. The woman escorting them opened the door into an office suite overlooking more landscaped grounds. The man seated behind a large antique desk stood up to greet them. "Come in, come in, welcome," he said with a smile, holding his arms out. He was the same man Karen had seen in the photographs online. He appeared to be in his late sixties or early seventies, with iron-gray hair slicked back from his forehead, revealing the scar she knew would be there. He was tall, over six feet, and wore a well-fitting, dark blue suit, probably hand tailored, with a lapel pin in the shape of a cross. He walked around the desk and held out a manicured hand. "Jim Sunday."

Karen shook his hand. "Karen Page." Up close, she could see the color of his eyes: a yellow-green like a cat's eyes.

Matt held out his hand in Sunday's general direction. "Matt Murdock." Sunday hesitated, but only for an instant, before shaking his hand.

"I see you've met my wife, Lynnette," Sunday said, gesturing toward their escort. "Thank you, my dear." Lynnette retreated, closing the door behind her. "Holy shit," Karen thought, hoping Sunday couldn't detect her reaction to the name. She glanced quickly at Matt, who was poker-faced.

"Please, sit," Sunday said as he walked back around the desk and sat behind it. "How can I help you?"

As Karen handed their business cards to Sunday, Matt explained, "As I believe Ms. Page mentioned over the phone, we have a client who is interested in acquiring a lakefront property upstate. We understand you own a property on Sawgatuck Lake that our client is interested in."

"Interested in for what purpose?" Sunday asked.

"A vacation home," Matt replied.

"I see." Sunday picked up the business cards and studied them for a moment. "Isn't it a bit unusual for someone in your part of the city to have a vacation home?"

"In the past, maybe," Matt conceded, "but Hell's Kitchen is changing. Since the Incident, you know."

"Yes, of course."

"We understand you've owned the property since 1991, is that correct?" Matt asked. "And you acquired it from a Jacob Sundstrom?"

Sunday nodded. "Yes, I believe that's correct."

"Do you know how we can contact Mr. Sundstrom?"

"Sorry, no," Sunday replied. "I never met the man. It was strictly a business transaction. Why do you ask?"

"Our client needs to be assured he would have clear title to the property, if he were to purchase it." Matt replied. "Mr. Sundstrom could be helpful in confirming that."

Sunday shrugged. "It's a moot point anyway, as you lawyers like to say. I have no interest in selling the property. We hope to develop it as a church retreat in the future."

Matt stood up and unfolded his cane. "Our client will be disappointed to hear that. But thank you for your time." He took hold of Karen's arm, and they turned to leave.

Sunday spoke up before they reached the door. "If I may ask, Mr. Murdock," Sunday said, "are you a religious man?"

Matt stopped and turned to face the pastor. "Catholic," he replied, in a clipped tone that should have warned Sunday to back off.

Sunday didn't heed the warning. "But have you accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?" he asked.

"That's between Him and me," Matt said, in the same clipped tone.

"Oh, I don't mean to intrude," Sunday said smoothly, "but I can't help wondering. Have you always been blind?"

"No. Accident. Chemical spill, when I was nine."

"Tragic, tragic," Sunday murmured. He cleared his throat. "The reason I ask . . . we've seen some amazing things in our 'Circle of Healing' – miracles, really. I take no credit for it. I'm simply grateful that the Lord has seen fit to use me as His instrument. We would be delighted if you would join us."

Karen glanced at Matt, who was clenching his jaw and gripping his cane so tightly that his knuckles were white. She had to get him out of there _now_.

When Matt didn't respond, Sunday persisted, "Surely you would welcome a chance to see again."

"Let's get out of here," Karen whispered, so softly that only Matt could hear her. Then she spoke to Sunday, trying to keep her voice even. "Thank you for your time." Matt turned and followed her out of the office.

They hurriedly left the building by the nearest exit. As soon as they were out of the building, Matt exploded. "God damn it!" he swore, clenching his fists. "When I get my hands on that lying piece of shit . . . ."

"When you do, I'll hold him down for you," Karen told him. "What an asshole."

They had ended up in a garden in back of the church. A sign identified it as a "Prayer and Healing Garden." Karen scoffed at the name. "Fucking con man," she declared scornfully. "He's a complete fraud."

Matt nodded. "Or worse. If he's Jacob."

"Oh, he's Jacob, all right. It all fits. The wife has to be Lynnette, from Katie's diary. Then there's the handwriting, the scar, the eyes. You should've seen them. They're just like Katie described them – the color of a cat's eyes. And the con is basically the same, just slicker."

"And probably covering up the same thing," Matt pointed out. "Sick fucker."

Karen nodded grimly. Then she started looking around, for a way out of the garden that didn't involve going back through the building. Suddenly she did a double-take. "What's that?" she asked.

"What?"

"There's another building, down at the far end, surrounded by a tall hedge. I can just see it through the foliage." They walked along the garden path and stood next to the hedge. "There's a fence behind it," Karen said.

Matt inclined his head toward the hedge. "Not just any fence," he said. "It's electrified."

"What the hell?" Karen asked.

Matt shrugged. "Can you tell what the building is, on the other side?"

"I'm not sure. It kind of looks like a house, brick, two-story, but the hedge is too thick to see it clearly. Are you picking up anything?"

"Not really. There's no one outside, and I can't hear any heartbeats from inside. It's too far away."

"I don't like this. Not one damn bit."

"Me neither."

"Let's get out of here," Karen said. "We need to come up with a plan."

"Lead the way."

They were about halfway back to the city when traffic came to a halt. "Damn," Karen swore. Then she turned to Matt and asked, tentatively, "I was wondering . . . if there was a chance you could get your sight back – I don't mean Sunday's bogus 'healing,' I mean something real – would you take it?"

"Not possible," Matt replied curtly.

Karen persisted. "But if there was – "

"God damn it, Karen," Matt snapped. "Give it a rest, would you? It's not gonna happen."

Karen dropped the subject. A few minutes later, traffic started moving again. They traveled the rest of the way into the city in tense silence. Matt got out of the car in front of the brownstone, and she went in search of a parking space. When she walked in the door, twenty minutes later, she went straight to Matt's office. He heard her coming and raised his head. They both spoke at the same time.

"Karen, I – "

"Matt – "

Matt waved his hand. "You first," he said.

She took a deep breath as she sat down across the desk from him. "I just want to apologize. I shouldn't have asked . . . what I did. And I shouldn't have been so pushy, when it was obvious you didn't want to talk about it."

Matt shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm the one who should apologize – for snapping at you like I did. I wasn't angry at you. It was Sunday. He isn't the first so-called 'faith healer' – " Matt made air quotes. " – who thought he could give me my sight back, you know. When I was a kid, growing up at the orphanage, they used to turn up pretty regularly. And sometimes total strangers come up to me in the street and tell me they can 'heal' me."

"Jesus, Matt," Karen breathed.

"I'm pretty sure He isn't involved," Matt observed dryly. He pressed his lips together, then continued, "And I knew, even when I was a kid, that being blind doesn't mean I'm broken. I don't need to be fixed, or healed, or whatever. Stick taught me that."

"I never thought I'd say this," Karen said, "but he was right. About that, at least."

Matt nodded. "Yeah, he was. But Sunday reminded me that that's how people see me – broken, needing to be fixed. I should be used to it, I guess, but it still makes me angry."

"It should – make you angry, I mean. People can be such idiots," Karen declared.

"Yeah," Matt agreed. "But, you know, in this case, I think it was intentional."

"Intentional?"

"Yes, to throw me off." Matt frowned. "And it worked. He made sure we'd leave and not ask any more questions about Jacob."

"I think you might be right," Karen said. She fell silent for a moment, then took a deep breath and asked, "Is it OK if I ask you . . . what I asked, before?"

"You mean, about getting my sight back?"

"Yes."

Matt bowed his head and ran a hand through his hair. When he raised his head again, he didn't answer right away. Karen was beginning to think he wasn't going to answer at all, but then he took a deep breath and said, "Well, I did say once that you could ask me anything. But, honestly, I don't know what I'd do. It's not something I think about. Because I know it isn't possible. If it was possible, but it meant losing my abilities, I'm not sure I'd take that trade-off." He put his elbows on the desk top and rested his chin on his hands. After a moment, he lifted his head. "Stick also taught me sight is a distraction," he said. "A distraction I don't need."

"Or want?"

"Maybe. I don't know." He stood up and walked around his desk to stand next to her, leaning on the edge of the desk. "When we first met, you asked me if I remembered what it was like to see. Do you remember that?"

Karen nodded. "Yes, I remember. And you told me that you did."

"Yes, that's what I said. But it's only partly true. I mean, my senses show me shapes and sizes and movement, but not what people or things actually look like. And I don't remember that, for the most part. I just tell sighted people I remember."

Karen wondered if she should continue the conversation. It was unusual for Matt to talk so openly about his blindness. It was just a fact of life, a part of him. They didn't really talk about his blindness at all – not like this, anyway. But she was curious. This might be her only chance to learn more. She decided to try to keep him talking. "Why?" she asked.

"I don't want them feeling sorry for me."

"So you don't wish you could see, sometimes?"

"Not really. It's not like I spend all my time thinking about the fact that I can't see. It just is." He shrugged. "It's kind of hard to miss something that you don't remember."

"Yeah, I get it," Karen said thoughtfully. After a moment, she stood up. "I should get back to work."

Matt reached out and took her hand. "Please stay. There's something else we need to talk about."

She sat down on the desk beside him. "OK."

Still holding her hand, Matt asked, "Is something wrong? Because you haven't been yourself, not since you came back from upstate."

Karen sighed inwardly. She knew she wouldn't be able to keep it to herself indefinitely. He could always tell. "Not wrong, exactly," she replied.

"Then what?"

"When I was upstate, it was like I was in . . . another world. You know, the one where 'normal' people live. It made me realize how . . . crazy our lives are. And question . . . all this." She waved her hand.

"Do you want to leave, Karen? And have a 'normal' life?" Matt asked quietly.

She saw the pain on his face and heard it in his voice, and she realized her answer was never in doubt. She shook her head. "No. It just . . . hit me, I guess, the contrast, when I was driving back to the city. I thought about what I was going back to and it felt like . . . too much. But I don't want to, I _can't_ leave you, or Foggy, or what we're doing together." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I love you guys, you know that, right?"

Matt held out his arms. "C'mere," he said. He took a tentative step toward her, then folded his arms around her. She put her head on his shoulder. He stroked her hair. "I know. And we love you. I love you," he said. "We can't do this – _I_ can't do this – without you."

Karen raised her head. "Me neither."

He released her from his embrace. "You OK?"

She nodded. "Yeah."

"It's understandable, you know, you being a little freaked out. We've seen some weird shit."

"Yeah, we have, haven't we?" she said with a half-smile. "I didn't think anything could freak me out, not after everything that's happened over the last few years."

"Really?" Matt asked with a sly grin. "What about – ?" He leaned in and whispered in her ear.

"No!" she exclaimed as she pulled away from him. "I don't . . . you don't . . . you can't!" She felt her face grow hot and knew she was turning bright red.

Matt knew, too. Still grinning, he nodded smugly. Then he leaned in again and kissed her. Laughing, she escaped to her own office.

_Matt_

Karen went home with Matt that night. But when he woke up, sometime in the middle of the night, she wasn't in bed next to him. He heard the rustle of cloth as she put on her clothes, leaving her shoes off, and crept toward the apartment's front door. "Damn," he swore to himself. He knew exactly what she was doing. The three of them had brainstormed for an hour that afternoon, trying to come up with a plan to stop Jacob, or Pastor Sunday, as he was calling himself now. None of their ideas seemed likely to work. Now Karen was taking matters into her own hands. Of course she was. Matt sighed and picked up his phone to call Foggy. If he was right about what Karen was doing, he was going to need a ride.


	4. Chapter 4 - Breaking the Circle

_Chapter 4 – Breaking the Circle_

_Karen_

Karen pulled the door shut behind her. It closed with a soft click. "Damn," she thought. Matt was going to hear that. She should have gone home tonight, to her own apartment. Or maybe not, she thought, smiling to herself. She sat down on the steps and quickly put on her shoes, then hurried downstairs and out of the building. Matt and Foggy were wasting their time, trying to come up with a plan. What they needed was to act. Now.

Her car was parked two blocks from Matt's building. She half-walked, half-ran the distance, checking behind and above her to see if Matt was following. No sign of him. Good. She got into her car and drove away. At that time of night, traffic was light, and she made it to Jericho in less than an hour. She drove past the megachurch and turned onto the next street. According to the map on her phone, it should take her to a street that ran behind the church grounds, separated from them by a wooded area. With any luck, she should be able to approach the house from that direction without being seen.

She parked the car in the middle of the block, about where she estimated the house would be. She transferred some of the contents of her purse, including her gun and her phone, to the backpack she kept in the trunk of her car. She locked her purse in the trunk and put on the backpack. Moving as quietly as she could, she made her way into the wooded area. A hundred feet in, she thought she could see the house and the hedge surrounding it, directly ahead. Then she heard a whirring noise. She looked up and to her right and spotted a red light. "Shit," she thought. It was a camera. She'd expected to have to avoid cameras close to the house, but not this far away. Suddenly, a bank of lights came on, blinding her. When her eyes adjusted, she saw three armed men surrounding her. One of them grabbed her arm roughly and pulled her toward the house. She decided not to put up a fight, not yet. She didn't like the odds. Besides, she really wanted to get a look inside that house. They passed through a gap in the hedge and opened a gate in the fence. Apparently, the power to the fence had been turned off.

Once inside the house, one of the men took her to a room and pulled off her backpack. "Sit," he growled, pushing her onto a chair. He pawed through the backpack, removing her gun and her phone, then threw it back at her feet. He turned and walked away, locking the door behind him.

As soon as he was gone, Karen grabbed the backpack and rummaged through it, pulling out her keychain with its canister of mace. Either the searcher had overlooked it, or he didn't know what it was. She took the canister off the keychain and concealed it in her hand. She intended to be ready for him when he returned. She didn't have to wait long. There was a click as a key turned in the lock, and the door opened. A different man, one she hadn't seen before, entered the room. He approached her, holding a length of pipe in one hand. She didn't hesitate. She raised the canister and sprayed him, full in the face. He screamed and went down to his knees, dropping the pipe and scrubbing at his face with his hands. She picked up the pipe and her backpack and darted from the room.

She started in the direction of the door, intending to make her escape, when she heard voices – female voices, _young_ female voices. "Son of a bitch," she muttered. She turned back and ran down the hall in the direction of the voices. All of the doors along the hall were closed, the voices coming from inside the rooms. She tried one of the doors. Locked. "Stay back," she yelled, swinging the pipe at the door's center panel. She was in luck. The cheap, hollow-core door splintered. A few more swings, and the hole in the door was large enough for the occupant of the room to crawl out. Petite and dressed only in a flimsy nightgown, she looked about fourteen years old. "Let's get you out of here," Karen said. When the girl didn't respond, she repeated, "Let's go!"

Then she heard it, a rhythmic banging on the other doors, all along the hall. "Omigod," Karen whispered, sickened. It was even worse than she thought. How was she going to get them all out?

The commotion had attracted the attention of the three men from the woods, who appeared at the end of the hall. Karen turned, pushing the girl in front of her, toward the opposite end of the hall. _"Run!" _she screamed. The girl ran, followed closely by Karen. When she glanced behind her, she saw the men raising their guns. As they began firing, she pushed the girl into a hallway on her left and followed her. The hallway led to a side door. They ran out of the house and across the back yard. Before they reached the gate, Karen threw the pipe at the fence. Nothing happened. The current was still off. Karen opened the gate, and they squeezed through the gap in the hedge. She heard heavy footsteps pounding across the back yard, but the thick hedge hid her and the girl from their pursuers. They took a zig-zag route across the wooded area to avoid the cameras, and emerged from the cover of the trees near her parked car. As they walked toward her car, the girl shrieked. Karen clapped a hand over her mouth. Then she looked up. Daredevil was standing in front of them.

_Matt_

Matt ended the call, hoping Foggy was awake enough to appreciate the urgency of the situation. He went to the closet and opened his father's battered foot locker, pulling out his all-black Daredevil suit. Melvin Potter made the suit after he was released from jail, following Wilson Fisk's downfall. Melvin wanted to make him a new devil suit, but Matt nixed the idea. The devil suit was irreparably tainted, after Poindexter killed people while wearing it. The people of Hell's Kitchen had to know the real Daredevil wasn't a killer. The new suit looked like an ordinary shirt and pants, but they were reinforced with the strong, light, flexible armor Melvin had invented. Even his mask was lined with it. The new suit was also less conspicuous than the red suit, making it easier for him to move around the city when he couldn't use the rooftops.

Dressed in the black suit, Matt waited in his building's entry hall for Foggy to arrive. When he pulled to the curb, driving Marci's car, Matt sprinted across the sidewalk and got in. He was still fastening his seat belt when he began urging Foggy to "Drive, drive."

Foggy pulled away from the curb and headed east, across town. "You sure you're right – about where Karen's going, I mean?"

"Yeah. It's gotta be the house in back of Sunday's church. The way she reacted when she spotted it . . . yeah, it's gotta be that."

"What d'you think Sunday's doing there?"

"What he's done his whole life, probably," Matt replied grimly.

"Damn."

They drove in silence for a while. Then Matt started muttering, "God damn it, Karen, God damn it. What are you _doing?_"

"I'll give you one guess." Foggy said sarcastically.

"She's doing it again, isn't she? Taking off on her own, doing God-knows-what. Doesn't she know how dangerous that is?"

"That's really rich, coming from you," Foggy pointed out.

"But she's not – " Matt protested.

"Not who? Daredevil?" Foggy asked. "I got news for you, buddy, in case you haven't noticed. At this point, she's basically turned into a female version of you. Think Matt Murdock but with long hair and boobs."

Matt groaned. "You know I can't visualize that, right?" he asked. "Thank God."

"Just sayin'."

That killed the conversation until they reached Jericho. The navigation system in Marci's car directed them to the megachurch. "Now what?" Foggy asked.

"We need to figure out where she'd go. It's not like she was gonna march up to the front door of the house and ring the doorbell. Let's go around to the back and check it out."

They followed the same route Karen had taken, along the side of the church grounds, then turning onto the street that ran in back of them. "Yes!" Foggy exclaimed when he spotted Karen's car. He pulled to the curb behind it.

Matt got out of the car, then leaned back in through the window and said, "Drive down to the end of the block and wait. I'm gonna find Karen and get her out of there."

"OK, buddy. Go find her," Foggy replied before he drove away.

Matt had only taken a few steps away from the car when he heard a shriek, quickly muffled. He tensed, then relaxed when he identified the two figures walking toward him: Karen and a young girl, probably a teenager, a very scared one. "Hey, Karen," he said.

"Ma – !" she exclaimed, stopping herself when she remembered she shouldn't say his name in front of the girl. She indicated the girl with her. "This is – "

"Kayla," the girl said. "And you're Daredevil, aren't you?"

Matt nodded solemnly. "Yes. I am."

"Cool. Are you going to save my friends in the house?"

"There are other girls there?" he asked.

"Yes," Karen replied, "but I don't know how many or where they are." She turned to Kayla. "Kayla?"

The girl thought for a moment, apparently counting on her fingers. "I think, seven, not counting me. Three downstairs, four upstairs."

"How many men?"

Karen said, " I saw four. I took out one of them with mace. Are there any others, Kayla?"

"No," Kayla replied. "Except Pastor Jim."

"The pastor is there?" Matt asked. "Where?"

"Amy's room, on the second floor, down at the end," Kayla said. "It's her night tonight."

Matt felt sick to his stomach at the thought of the hideous crime Kayla was referring to so matter-of-factly, a crime she was surely a victim of herself. He ground his teeth, then took a deep breath to keep his rage in check. "I'll get your friends out, Kayla. I promise." He turned to Karen. "Anything else I should know?" he asked, keeping his voice low so Kayla couldn't hear him.

"The electrified fence. It was shut off when we went through, but they could have turned it on again."

"OK. Foggy's at the end of the block, in Marci's car. Park behind him and wait for me. I'll be back soon."

"I should come with you," Karen said.

"No, I got this. You need to stay with Kayla."

Matt strode away without waiting for Karen to reply. When he was about halfway to the house, he heard the whirring of a camera and stepped to the side, away from where he guessed its arc would reach. As he approached the hedge, he listened for the hum of the electric fence. It was silent. He found a gap in the hedge and went through, then opened the gate in the fence. The back door to the house stood open. He paused on the stoop, his head tilted, exploring the interior of the house with his senses. There were three individuals clustered together on the first floor. Probably three of the men Karen had seen. Other people were scattered throughout the house, on both floors, their heartbeats telling a story of extreme agitation and fear: the girls, and the man Karen had maced. And there was one more heartbeat, on the second floor. It was slightly irregular, but not because of fear or agitation. Apparently Sunday had a heart condition.

The only way to the girls and Sunday was through the three men. He would have to take them all out. He crept silently through the house toward them and stopped just outside the doorway of the room where they were gathered. He paused there for a moment, listening to their conversation. Apparently, they'd decided on a plan to search the wooded area for Kayla and her rescuer. One of them said, "Let's go." Chairs scraped, and boots slapped the floor as they got to their feet.

Matt pulled out the billy club Melvin had made for him and launched it at the closest man. It hit him squarely on the head, knocking him out, then ricocheted back to Matt. He caught it and rushed the other two men, who drew their weapons and fired. Matt flipped and twisted, evading the bullets, then went on the offensive. When one of the men came in too close, he pulled the club's two sections apart and wrapped its cable around the man's throat, choking him into unconsciousness and forcing him to drop his gun. As he let the unconscious man slide down onto the floor, the remaining man jumped him. Matt brought his club down hard on the man's hand, disarming him, but he lost his grip on the club in the process. He kicked both guns across the room.

Smelling of pepper but somewhat recovered from being maced, a fourth man rushed into the room and held Matt down while the other man landed punch after punch on his head and body. Matt struggled to break free of them, finally using his legs to push away the man who was hitting him. He scrambled to his feet and began pummeling him. A blow to the head finally put him down, bloody and unconscious. So intent was he on his opponent that he had lost track of the fourth man. Then he sensed someone coming up from behind him. He whirled, ready to deliver a leaping kick. He stopped in mid-motion when the man went down. Standing behind him was Karen, his billy club in her hand.

"Thanks," he said gruffly.

"You're welcome," she replied, handing him the club.

As they moved through the house, Matt kicked open the locked doors to the girls' rooms. Karen took charge of the girls as they were freed. The last room was Amy's, at the end of the second-floor hall. Kayla's information was accurate: Amy was not alone. Sunday stood at the foot of the bed, hurriedly throwing on his clothes. Amy ran from the room, sobbing, into Karen's arms. Matt gave in to his rage, letting the devil out. He put Sunday on the floor with a vicious kick to the chest, then rained blows down on his face until it was a bloody mess.

From the doorway where she was comforting Amy, Karen yelled, "Stop it! Stop it! Please!"

Her voice and her words got though to Matt. He landed a final punch on Sunday's already-broken jaw, gave a triumphant roar, then backed off. He stood to one side, panting, with his head down and his hands on his knees.

"Cops are on the way," Karen told him. He nodded. He could hear the sirens in the distance. "You and Fo – " She cut off the name, not wanting the girls to know it. "You need to go. I'll take it from here."

Matt dipped his head in acknowledgment, then turned and loped away.

_Epilogue_

Karen was the one who called Scott Parrish to tell him about his biological father. He waived the attorney-client privilege, telling Karen, "I don't care, tell the cops everything you know, if it will help them nail that sick bastard. I only wish Sister Dora had lived to see this." Karen agreed. She turned over Katie's diary and the photograph and told the Nassau County detectives the whole story: about Katie and Jacob and "Heavenly Home" and Scott's parentage and birth, and about her investigation and the suspicions about Sunday that led her to the house on the church grounds. When asked how Daredevil came to be there that night, she shrugged. The detectives didn't press her. They weren't interested in going after the vigilante, not after he exposed a scumbag like Sunday.

All but one of the rescued girls told similar stories. They had been snatched from malls or other places where teenage girls congregated. Four were local girls whose parents had reported them missing. They were quickly reunited with their families. The detectives found no missing person reports in the New York metropolitan area on three of the girls, including Kayla. They theorized the girls were runaways and might not have given their true names, out of fear of being sent back to neglectful or abusive homes. They would widen their search, but in the meantime, the girls were sent to a group home for at-risk teenagers. Maggie checked out the place, using her contacts in the child welfare community, and she assured Matt, Foggy, and Karen that the girls would be safe there.

The eighth girl's story was different. She was the daughter of two of Sunday's most fervent disciples, who had "dedicated" her to the pastor. Her parents were outraged at their daughter's rescue and Sunday's arrest, insisting everything that happened was with their permission. This did not go over well with the cops or with Children's Services, who placed the girl in a foster home and began proceedings to remove her permanently from her parents' custody.

The two oldest girls, those who had been in the house the longest, told an even more disturbing story. There had been other girls, older girls, before them. All of them had disappeared. One of the rescued girls once heard the guards talking about plans to "relocate" two girls "upstate." Within a few days, two girls – the oldest girls in the house at that time – were gone, and women from the church showed up to clear out their rooms. They were soon replaced by younger girls.

Upstate, searchers swarmed over "Heavenly Home." What they found there shocked and sickened them, even the veteran officers who thought they'd seen everything. Sheriff Aaron Kemp, who assisted in the search, told Karen they found ten graves. Nine of the graves contained the bodies of young girls, probably teenagers. All had died violently within the last ten years. Six of them were identified from missing person reports, some of them dating back as much as fifteen years. Three of them were never identified. The tenth burial, found behind one of the cabins, was much older. It contained the skeletons of an adult man and woman, both of whom had been shot in the back of the head. It took months, but Brett Mahoney finally discovered the dental records that identified them as Patrick and Mary Jo McBride.

DNA testing confirmed Sunday was Scott's biological father. Karen sometimes wondered how he was coping with the knowledge that his birth father was a monster. She was confident he'd be all right in the long run. As Scott himself had said, Joe Parrish was his real father.

The arrest of a prominent pastor as a serial child rapist dominated the local news cycle for the next week, until the shit show in the Nation's Capital reclaimed the top spot. The news of the upstate murders brought the case back into the headlines. Jacob Sundstrom aka James Sunday remained in custody in the Nassau County jail, charged with multiple felonies. The court denied bail, ruling he was a flight risk and a danger to the community. Worshipers deserted the "Circle of Life Fellowship" until only Sunday's most devoted followers remained. Within months, even they had left; some, including his wife Lynnette, fled before they were indicted as co-conspirators or accomplices. The massive building stood vacant, its grounds overgrown with weeds.

Sunday was never tried for his many crimes. Three months after his arrest, he had a massive heart attack and died in his cell. According to rumors that were never substantiated, he called for help, but no one came to his aid.


End file.
